“I hate having my nails painted.
You’ll laugh, probably, at the reason: nail polish makes me feel like my fingers can’t breathe.
I know, fingers don’t breathe.
But mine do, unless they’re covered in suffocating shades of pink.
So when my six-year-old asked if he could paint my nails today, you understand why my immediate reaction was to say no.
‘You can pick the color,’ he offered.
I considered him across the kitchen counter, his blue eyes big and earnest.
I’ll admit: I’m weak when it comes to my only son sandwiched between a trio of sisters.
Bless his heart, he’s surrounded by hair bows and pink toes every waking moment of his life. Even so, he’s patient and kind and gentle and steady, the kind of brother any sister would be lucky to have.
It’s easy—so easy—to let this middle kid tread water there in the middle.
I’m never far, of course, lest he drift a little too far from shore, but right now, six years in, he’s blissfully uncomplicated to keep afloat.
I picked orange.
Partially because it was either that or clumpy half-dried lime green, but mostly because it’s his favorite color.
This manicure wasn’t for me.
It was for him.
We sat on the floor at the foot of the high chair while the baby gummed banana puffs and banged on her tray.
He furrowed his brow, stuck out his tongue like he does when he’s concentrating, and covered each one of my nails carefully as I studied his gentle soul.
He’s going to be a good man—a beautiful man—one day.
My nails aren’t perfect. They’re bumpy, a little uneven, and yeah, they’re suffocating.
But my heart?
That’s breathing easy and bursting with love.”
Credit: Assignment: Mom